PMJ Archives: An Autumnal Point of View (Oct. 3, 2020)
You are wandering down a sun-dappled woodland path. Your hair is tousled and messy from both the wind and your afternoon slumber under an old apple tree. Dried leaves crunch under your boots. Droplets of water trickle down the aspen leaves and fall on your bare head as remnants of the morning's rain shower. You reach into your satchel and find an old, worn copy of Jane Eyre with a red maple leaf pressed in it for a bookmark.
As you walk along the tunnel-like path, absorbed in the novel, a blue jay flies overhead. You stop and gaze up toward the sky, seeing only peeks of the dusky orange past the trees. A cold breeze sends chills up your neck, and you spot a thick quilt that your grandmother hung from a tree in case you got cold on your frequent walks. You wrap yourself tightly in it, sit down beneath the aspens, and continue reading. It's not until after dark that the faraway hearth light from your grandmother's cottage starts to beckon you. Walking back toward the house, you say goodnight to the sweet forest and all its little inhabitants.